


Just Friends

by SpicedGold



Category: Boruto: Naruto Next Generations
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Canon Compliant, Implied Boruto/Sarada, M/M, Plotless Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27507682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicedGold/pseuds/SpicedGold
Summary: Shikadai doesn’t like thinking about what defines him and Inojin.Because he thinks his answer and Inojin’s answer are not the same.
Relationships: Nara Shikadai/Yamanaka Inojin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 90





	Just Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Just warming up for a multi-chapter about these two boys, and wrote this after getting stuck in that fic. Should get it sorted soon. In the mean time, have some pointless, plotless fluff.

Obnoxiously loud knocking on his door is what finally pulls Shikadai out of blissful unconsciousness. He doesn’t even bother to open his eyes, just stays lying in bed, and hopes whoever is there will leave. It’s too early to pretend to be civil.

Also, he is comfortable, and warm, and has the day off. He is not getting out of bed.

The hammering at the door persists, and eventually, Shikadai can hear Boruto hollering, “We know you’re home! Open the door, Shikadai!”

With a loud groan, Shikadai rolls over, finally opens his eyes, and blinks blearily into the dim light of his room. The whole point of moving into his own apartment was to avoid early morning wake ups. He sits up, scrubbing a hand across his eyes, and snarls, “Give me a minute!”

He runs a hand through his hair. It’s sticking up everywhere, and he fumbles for his hair tie.

The clock says seven thirty, and he grimaces. It’s a damn Saturday morning, too; what the hell could Boruto possibly want?

He recognizes the need for clothing before answering the door, and targets the nearest shirt. It’s in a crumpled heap on the floor, but it’s his, and it’s a shirt, so it ticks all his boxes.

_Pants_ , he thinks absently. Those are easier to find. His apartment gets chilly most evenings, and he has been wearing the same pair of sweatpants every night for about two weeks. They are at the foot of the bed, and he pulls them on, taking his time. Boruto can wait.

Shikadai finally summons the strength to stand, and makes his way to the door.

Boruto and Sarada are standing there, looking ridiculously bright eyed.

He passes a hand over his face again, clearing his throat loudly. “Well?”

Boruto smiles sunnily. “We called you, but you didn’t pick up your phone.”

Shikadai has no idea where his phone is. If someone wants him, they can wait. “And you didn’t take the hint?”

“We needed you. And figured you’d slept enough.”

Shikadai could happily sleep all day, but he doesn’t point this out. Instead, he scratches absently at an itch on his ribs, waits for Boruto to explain himself, and when there is nothing but Boruto eying him up and down, he takes initiative.

“What?” he asks flatly.

Boruto holds up a laptop, and Sarada points to it, like he wouldn’t have been able to figure out that it was the source of his untimely awakening. “Can you fix this?”

“What?”

“We have urgent work to do,” Sarada explains, both of them casually muscling their way inside. “And it got stuck, or something?”

“Why did you come to me?”

“You’re a genius,” Boruto says cheerfully. He sets the laptop on the only clear space on the table, between plates and weapons and a stack of Inojin’s canvases.

Shikadai’s apartment constantly looks like it’s been ransacked by a wayward tornado, and he doesn’t care. He didn’t invite them over, and he’s not pretending that he’s fastidious with housework. It’s not even all his mess – Inojin has half his bedroom scattered around, and Chocho leaves as much in his apartment as she does her own house.

Shikadai closes the front door and picks his way to the table. He kicks one of Inojin’s shoes aside en route, and leans both palms onto the table to stare at the laptop screen.

“Your shirt is on backwards,” Boruto says, and Shikadai doesn’t even have the energy to slap him.

“And inside out,” Sarada adds.

Shikadai briefly considers telling them to fuck off, but they’ve never bothered to listen before. He taps a few keys experimentally, seeing how ‘stuck’ the laptop was. “Shouldn’t you call Denki with issues like this?”

“Well, yeah,” Boruto shrugs. “But it’s Saturday, and he’s resting.”

Shikadai sends him a withering look.

“We figured you’d be up,” Boruto defends. “After all, you left the party early last night.”

“Maybe I had plans,” Shikadai mutters. “Maybe I had things to do.”

“Did you?” Sarada asks. “I mean, you and Inojin took off at like, eight thirty. Everyone had barely even arrived by then.”

“You missed Iwabe getting drunk,” Boruto provides. It doesn’t incentivize Shikadai to stay for the next party.

Shikadai rubs more sleep from his eyes, and squints at the laptop. He isn’t as familiar with the technology as Denki, but copious hours of gaming, and living through the learning curve that was Temari interacting with delicate machinery, has honed his skills enough that he has more than an average knowledge. “Why are you working so early?”

“We need this done by the end of the day,” Sarada provides. “We thought we’d get an early start.”

“So, what, you woke up early to work?” Shikadai has identified the problem, and begins setting things into motion to correct it.

“I was with her anyway,” Boruto says, and after that admission they both turn pink.

Shikadai couldn’t care less about their constant denial that they are both attracted to each other. It stopped being cute several years ago. Now he just wishes they would admit they were in a relationship instead of pretending they weren’t. Chocho knows everything about everyone, and she happily shares gossip with ‘her boys’. And he’s still annoyed at them for waking him up. “Just because you two can bounce around after sex doesn’t mean we all can.”

“We’re not-“

“We don’t-“

“We didn’t-“

They both splutter a bit, stumbling over words and denials, and it gives Shikadai time to work in peace. Until Boruto recovers, and queries, “Wait, what do you mean you can’t bounce around after sex?”

It’s at that moment that Inojin chooses to emerge from the bedroom, and Shikadai is equal parts relieved that he’s bothered to put on clothes, and mortified, because Inojin’s clad in his boxers and one of Shikadai’s button down shirts, except there is not a single button done, and it shows off the various red marks all around his neck and chest.

Shikadai can’t help it – Inojin bruises easily, loves attention, always tastes so sweet, and Shikadai is going to die of embarrassment.

“Hey,” Inojin says casually, like it’s perfectly normal to waltz into a conversation with hickies all over, and his hair an absolute mess because Shikadai had his hands in it most of last night. He saunters past them to the kitchenette, flicking the kettle on and reaching for a mug.

Sarada and Boruto stare at him with matching looks of incredulous surprise.

Shikadai heaves a sigh, and continues tapping at the laptop. It wasn’t exactly a secret that he and Inojin were involved, but . . . their friends didn’t know _how_ involved.

“Hi,” Sarada eventually regains her powers of speech.

Inojin makes tea, ignores the uncomfortable silence, and wanders leisurely to press himself to Shikadai’s back and peer over his shoulder. “What’s up?”

“Computer’s fucked,” Shikadai mutters.

“Huh.” Inojin tucks a loose strand of hair behind Shikadai’s ear, briefly kisses the now exposed spot on his neck, and straightens up. “Are you coming back to bed after it’s fixed?”

“Yes,” Shikadai grunts, and Sarada’s cheeks colour pink, while Boruto snorts and rolls his eyes.

“Okay.” Inojin leaves them, padding back into the bedroom, and Boruto raises an eyebrow at Shikadai.

“I would say that surprised me, but it didn’t really. How long?”

“Not long,” Shikadai mutters, like he and Inojin haven’t been eying each other since graduating the Academy, like he hasn’t been head over heels for him for years, like he doesn’t do everything possible to eke out extra moments together. He mentally swears at the laptop, urging it to fix faster.

“I have to ask,” Boruto starts, and Shikadai is fairly certain he doesn’t, “But, uh, is this like a relationship or like a ‘friends with benefits’ thing?”

Shikadai doesn’t know. He and Inojin have always been close. They don’t date other people, but Shikadai doesn’t know if _they_ are dating. Whatever they have is causal. Well, it’s deliberately casual. It’s casual in as much as they never talk about seeing other people, or anything else like that.

It's casual because by some mutual agreement they both know it’s not casual.

Shikadai doesn’t want to think about it. “Nothing. We’re just messing around.”

He isn’t sure why he baulks at the idea of him and Inojin being a _thing_ , an item, a couple. Maybe it’s because Inojin is flighty and gorgeous, and Shikadai doesn’t want to admit that he’s terrified Inojin will move on to someone better. Inojin has options. He has people winking at him and flirting with him, and he has admirers and possibly a few stalkers.

And Shikadai is just Shikadai.

And it’s easier to hide behind indifference than admit he wants Inojin, badly, in every way, and he isn’t sure Inojin returns those feelings. Shikadai has mastered a façade of disinterest, and he uses it to protect his heart, because Inojin is worth the world and Shikadai has little of it to offer.

He pushes the thought aside, waits for the laptop to reboot, and tries not to think of the way Inojin curls against him when they sleep, and the way he smiles, and the way he scrunches his nose when he’s painting, and the way he flicks his hair back when he’s winning an argument.

Those are thoughts reserved for couples.

And Inojin and Shikadai are just friends.

“Done,” he says, turning the screen towards Boruto. “If you screw it up again, don’t call me.”

“Thank you,” Sarada says, and Shikadai gives her a grumbly reply.

“Hey, if you’re not busy later,” Boruto starts. “Sarada and I are going out for lunch and-“

“Get out,” Shikadai mutters gruffly. “And don’t bother me in the mornings again.”

“Ah, I see,” Boruto waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t want to miss out on snuggly time with your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” It hurts a bit to say it. And both Boruto and Sarada give him doubtful looks. He ushers them very pointedly to the door.

“Thanks, dude,” Boruto tucks the laptop under one arm. “Have fun with your not-boyfriend.”

Shikadai slams the door behind them, and briefly considers smacking his head against it. But he knows Inojin is in bed waiting for him, and not even Boruto’s irritating presence can dampen the warm glow that starts in his stomach at the thought of Inojin.

He trips over a backpack on the way to the bedroom, and mentally swears. Maybe he does need to clean the apartment. Before he breaks his neck. (Or bleeds out, because he has stood on one of Inojin’s fancy calligraphy pens before and punctured a hole through his foot. Inojin was more upset about the tip being bent than the bloodstain on his side of the couch. Although now he sits on Shikadai’s side of the couch, largely in Shikadai’s lap, so, silver linings, Shikadai muses.)

He finds his balance, and enters the room.

Inojin is lying with all the pillows fluffed up behind him like the diva he is, sipping his tea and scrolling through his phone.

Shikadai flops down next to him, face down, and hopes falling asleep comes quickly.

“Boruto’s on the group chat,” Inojin says, in a conversational tone of voice, which he never uses unless he’s going to say something Shikadai isn’t going to like.

“I don’t care.” The words are almost too muffled to be understood.

“He’s telling everyone about us.”

_What was there to tell?_ Shikadai wonders, shifting so he could watch Inojin with one eye.

Inojin offers him the phone, and Shikadai sighs at the messages.

_Boruto: Called it! Inojin’s a bottom._

_Wasabi: No way???_

_Chocho: Haha, was that a secret?_

_Iwabe: Goddamnit, I regret that bet. Fuck you, Boruto._

Inojin is smiling, like it’s amusing and not mortifying, and Shikadai buries his face into the mattress again. Inojin chuckles once or twice, and Shikadai hears him typing, and doesn’t want to know what he’s saying.

His earlier worries are catching up to him, and he decides to just take the plunge and voice them. The worst that could happen is Inojin gets up and leaves.

“What are we?” Shikadai asks, turning his head just enough to make his words intelligible. He is eye level with Inojin’s ribs, and he has an urge to bite the skin there, if just to see what Inojin does.

Inojin sips his tea, and doesn’t look away from his phone. “Apparently, I’m a bottom.”

“You are. But, seriously,” Shikadai hesitates. He needs to know. He needs to know, eventually, if what they have is real, or just a pitstop as Inojin seeks out someone better. “Are we . . . a couple?”

That prompts Inojin to finally put his phone and his mug down, and he stares at Shikadai with slightly narrowed eyes and an intense gaze. “What do you mean?”

Shikadai thought the question had been fairly self-explanatory. “Are we dating? For real? Or are we just messing around because we’re horny and young, and once you find someone better, you’ll move on?”

He is not often insecure. But everything is different with Inojin.

Inojin’s hand moves haltingly to tuck a lock of sunshine blond behind his ear, and the hesitation boosts Shikadai’s morale a bit. “I . . . someone better?”

“Better than me,” Shikadai clarifies. “You know . . . someone who’s not a drag all the time . . .?”

Inojin gets his patented, carefully blank expression from his father, and he uses it now as he puzzles through Shikadai’s concerns. Finally, after agonizing minutes of silence, he says slowly, “But there is no one better than you.”

Shikadai blinks, props himself up on one elbow, waits for more.

“You know me better than anyone else,” Inojin continues, voice growing soft. “You’ve been my best friend for as long as I can remember. I’m not easy to love, but you’ve never once turned your back on me.”

Shikadai just nods, words failing him.

“Shikadai, I’m here with you every day because I want to be. Because since we started this thing – since way before this – there’s never been anyone else I’ve wanted to spend time with more. Why would I look for anyone else when I’ve already got everything I need, right here with you?”

Shikadai shrugs awkwardly. “You know, I . . . I mean, you’ve never said anything like that before.”

“You never listen to me anyway.”

“I’m listening now.” He is not sure where the words come from, but they are out of his mouth before he can think to stop them. He closes his eyes briefly, takes a breath, and looks at Inojin.

Inojin’s eyes hold the sky, and Shikadai never tires of gazing into them.

“Let me be as clear as I can,” Inojin says, shifting down a bit until they are eye level. “I want to be with you. For now, and maybe forever. Because you’ve been in my life as long as I can remember, and I haven’t regretted a day spent with you.”

Shikadai lets out a breathy sigh, smiling softly. “Good to hear.”

Inojin leans in for a quick kiss, then pulls back to mess with his hair again, trying to smooth some of it down. “Sorry if we never clarified that before. I figured you knew.”

“Eh, too much talking is a drag,” Shikadai hooks a hand behind Inojin’s neck and pulls him to his chest. “And I was worried about your answer.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” Inojin assures, peppering light kisses on Shikadai’s cheeks. He squirms over Shikadai’s chest, leaning over him. “I’m yours.”

It sparks an electric thrill through Shikadai’s chest to hear him say it. He tangles his fingers in Inojin’s hair, gripping just firmly enough.

Inojin makes a grumbly noise against Shikadai’s lips, and murmurs, “I just smoothed it down.”

“I don’t care.”

Inojin tips his head to the side, encouraged by Shikadai’s hold in his hair. He sighs contentedly as Shikadai settles his mouth over one of the marks on his neck.

“So,” Shikadai starts, pressing teeth to skin, and grinning at the way Inojin flinches slightly. “We’re more than just friends?”

Inojin raises himself enough to give Shikadai a completely deadpan expression. He rolls his eyes, anchors a hand on Shikadai’s shoulder, and says acerbically, “I don’t do this with my friends.”

The following kiss is on the rougher side of things, but Shikadai isn’t going to complain about it. Not when he can feel Inojin’s stomach muscles flexing against his side as he shifts into a comfortable position. Shikadai saves him the trouble of thinking about it, pushing Inojin down onto his back, moving over him, and never once letting go of his hair.

Inojin’s fingers on his shoulder tighten, digging into firm flesh, and Shikadai smirks against his mouth.

No, he supposes, he doesn’t do this with friends either.

.


End file.
